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Touko was in the library, as always. The silence of the room was comfy, making her reading better than when all her classmates were investigating Chihiro's death.

'She was the only one with chances of hacking that computer, we may have to stay here if this goes on' she tought, sighing softly.

The heirness wasn't sad. Why would she? Feelings were what made her classmates perish; missing the outside world, everything they had, forced them kill each other, and die when Polanski, Kirigiri and Naegi solved the cases correctly. Naegi was the lucky, Kirigiri was still a mystery, and Polanski was the literate boy.

And she? She was the Super Duper Highschool heiress; thanks to the -stupid- writers' block, Touko forced herself to be the lead of her family editorial: Fukawa Books (a really creative name, yes). She was the one who decided which books were going to be published and which not, and that helped her editorial become famous as the books they made public were really popular.

The worst thing was seeing the rejected authors in front of her, with tears in their eyes and trying to make her opinion change. Because if their book was rejected by her editorial, that author was deemed unworthy to the rest, no matter what. It broke her heart; she was also a writer, even if her only work didn't have its sequel yet, and she imagined the pain they felt. But she couldn't do nothing else to help; her father, and her mother, and her mother wouldn't allow her to publish books that she tought were good, but the public wouldn't appreciate.

Byakuya Polanski was one of the authors that were permanently publishing in her editorial, that's how she knew him. He failed some weird selection in his family(The Togami one?), and so he started to publish his detective stories; they soon became really popular by how realistic the investigation were.



Ah, she started to overthink again.

Polanski was in front of her, with his long, golden hair shining as always. He stayed at her home to discuss months ahead of finishing his novel, that's how organized he was. Everything had to be perfect for him, failure wasn't allowed.


"Do you need anything, Byakuya?". The girl asked, her voice raspy from underuse.
She never talked, unless someone was interesting enough to deserve hearing her opinion. And he was a really decent writer.


"You're still my editor. Edit this."

A small notebook was now in her lap, and the blonde sat in front of her. He seemed... determined, to know what Touko tought of his writing.


'It's almost... cute... how much he wants to impress me'


"It is pointless". The girl returned the drafts to his owner. "We are trapped here, Byakuya. I will not be able to edit anything, or publish it."


"I don't care. Read it". The notebook was in her lap again, like a cat that seeks love from it's owner. "When we get out of here, this'll be your new hit" Byakuya exclaimed, proud of himself.



The heiress knew that the writer was right (most of the times he was), but Touko had a bad feeling about this situation. She couldn't explain it, but deep in her gut the girl was afraid of leaving the school.


"I will read this, yes. But you will make me dinner sometime soon".


"You can end up poisoned, but, okay". The blonde almost touched her hair, but he decided that it wasn't necessary as she glared at his hand. He looked like he was blushing, but walked to the library's entry before the girl could decipher if that was true. "Goodbye, Touko."



Fukawa wasn't interested in her book anymore. The author's drafts were way better than anything in this place- or so the heiress tought. His words were magnetic, impossible to stop reading, while the paragraphs were connected as if they were cobwebs. Her need for his writing was almost as if his words were water. She was happy between letters, and then she noticed that what the notebook had wasn't a simple draft. That's when she noticed that the genre wasn't his characteristic mystery... it was a love letter.

For her?

That's why he was so insistent, that's why he wanted to touch her hair and then blushed. It wasn't just another draft; it was a confession.